I Remember Grandma

I Remember Grandma

By The Sun Rises East

I remember grandma. She had that soul of fire.

Her name was Ada Lee Maxie. She was tall, cunning, a mix of black and Indian (and due to the eight strokes she had had by the age of thirty-six, she had to drag her left leg along when she'd walk). She had long black hair that was silk and shiny, and beautiful light brown skin, and she had been tough as an old whip. (And whenever she'd whipped me, she had whip me good.)

It had been the middle of summer, during the late eighties, the sun was hot and red above my head causing me to sweat down my back and sides. Me and Grandma had been plowing in her small garden, out to the side of the house. The house was white, a hundred years old, and had ghosts that walked the floors at night.

We had been planting turnips when I looked up and said, “Grandma, when I get rich. I'm gon' buy you a red Mercedes.”

I was a bright skinned black kid, nappy headed, probably five at the time, wily as a fox and too clever for my own good, and had no idea at what had made me say it. Nonetheless, Grandma had smiled her loped-sided grin all the same. “Dat right boy,” said Grandma, hawking up a glob of snuff and spat in the dirt. “Well, I’m gon' hold you to it.” And that was Grandma, always dipping snuff and spitting in cans. And always making jokes at people.

That had been grandma's little game of course, that and playing checkers. Had you been ugly, then you wouldn’t have wanted to come around because grandma would have told you so. If you had moved too fast, she would have blown your king and said, “ 'Moved too soon; you big-eyed coon,' “ blew your checker piece, jumped you here and there and say she'd won the game.

* * *

Grandma had loved to go walking.

All that had been before Uncle Mark had laid black tar on the dirt road, leading up past the “Smallwood’s,” to up past the cemetery, trees, landscapes with old houses built on land far and wide, horses grazing in the fields, more dirt and beyond.

It would be me, my cousins: Poulou, Two, Tavi, “occasionally” Bubba, Keisha, T.J., and my brother and sister (Bobby and Kim) whenever they came to visit during summer breaks. We had all walked with Grandma up the road, around the corner and down the street, waving at: Smallwood’s, McDaniel’s and any that might have passed by.

A truck had passed by tooting its horn. “Ada Lee!” some man shouted out the window. “I see ya woman!” Grandma gave a wave (or the finger), depending on your face. “I see you too!” Grandma shouted back, a chuckle on her face. “And you still is ugly!”

The man was black and old, with gray hair peeking from under his cowboy hat. He laughed hard, laughed hard some more, slapped the side of his truck, laughed again, then rode on down the road. (Probably still laughing.)

I hadn’t known it (at the time of course), but Grandma had that grim, set-jaw type of determination. Kind of like one of those old tractor trucks that you saw bush hogging on a new land, with a bunch of trees that needed cutting and probably sold to my uncle Cent. Those tractors were old, worn, and plenty used, but wouldn’t have given up long as something drove them. Same as grandma.

What drove Grandma, I'm guessing, was seeing my uncles and aunts: Tommy, Cent, Mark, James Ray, Arleen, Mamma, and Paula, make it in a world that she had brought them. Grandma had been determined by that, and you could have seen it on her face; you could have told it by the way she walked.

And she had one good leg for walking…

It was stronger than both of mine, Poulou's, Two's, Keisha's, Tavi's, J.R's, Bubba's, Kim's, and all the other grandkids put together. Grandma would walk up them roads, with her walking stick, one leg dragging the other, humming to the tune: “This Little Light is Mine,” and occasionally, would pop one of us with her walking stick (usually me), for not getting out the road when she'd told us.

* * *

Then came Sunday’s.

The Church was a small house with a slanted ceiling, that dripped rain in a tin bucket. The church house was white, needed painting, and the two front windows needed fixing, but to Grandma that church was better than any big church you saw on TV.

The pastor’s name was “Brother Robinson.” A black man with a box cut and strong voice. Brother Robinson would preach and shout, “Fear God!” and “Thank you Jesus!” Pause. Wipe sweat from around his handsome face... and shout some more. “Praise God!”

The church on Sunday was crowded with families and friends. Brother Robinson had a niece or nephew play the band, they were playing Grandma's favorite tune:

“This Little Light of mine,

I'm gon' let it shine.

This Little Light of mine,

I'm gon' to let it shine.

Let it shine.

Let it shine.

Let it shine.”

. . . And then everybody’s hand got to clapping and praying to Jesus.

Somewhere along my quick nap, I felt a pinch to my right thigh. I'd jolted straight in my black church pants and saw Grandma scowling at me. I had fallen asleep during preaching, and that was something grandma would give you a good pinching about. Just ask me, Poulou, or Two.

Brother Robinson had finished wrapping up his sermon about Revelations, passed around the Sunday's donation pot, which was really a straw hat that belonged to his young daughter, Cathy Robinson. I dropped in some loose change that Grandma slipped inside my hand before the pot reached us. “Always give back,” Grandma had said, as she, too, dropped in some of her government check inside the pot, “And always pray to Jesus.”

Grandma had been a good and kind woman who feared God, but make her mad, and she’ll shoot you with that old gun she kept behind her bed.

* * *

His name was “Tappin” Lee McClain. He was of thick skin, kind of dark-complexioned, loved to hunt coons and squirrels, and my cousin (Two) was his favorite. Tappin had strong hands, knew how to hunt, shoot, fish, skin an animal, and fix his truck. Tappin was an old man with a young body. But most of all, he was Grandma's boyfriend.

Grandma loved Tappin with all her heart and soul, but she wouldn’t have told you. Tappin would be out in the front yard either cutting ears off of possums ( I have no idea why he done it, either), fixing his truck, mowing, or raking up pine cones and leaves that fell from the big pine tree towering over the yard and house; or either spoiling Two with candy, sweets, cakes, or showing him how to do this or how to do that. And boy, did Two love Tappin. He'd follow Tappin around everywhere he went.

Grandma sat on the front porch, spitting tobacco, and swatting flies. I had made a ramp out of dirt and old tin, for me and Poulou to jump our bikes.

At first, Poulou was scared. “It’s nothing to it,” I had told her, hopped on my bike, peddled hard, and jumped the ramp so she could see how it was done. “See.”

Poulou leaped on her little pink bike that Aunt Paula had bought her for Christmas or a birthday, got a head start, pumped and peddled, then jumped the ramp. She fell hard in the dirt.

If you could have seen it, Poulou soaring through the air on her little pink bicycle, with no fear in her eyes, smiling as big as day, then hitting the dirt, tumbling and rolling. But, I am proud to say Poulou did not cry, though she had wanted to.

Poulou hitting the dirt had tickled Grandma senseless. She had laughed and laughed. “Girl,” she had said to Poulou, “you should have seen the look on your face.” Grandma laughed some more and took a dip of snuff. “Get up and do it again, Poulou. A lil' dirt ain’t gon hurt'cha.”

Poulou was tough, quick to fight, had bony knees and elbows, but nobody was going to tell little Lou she couldn’t play football with the boys in the dirt, because she was a girl.

Poulou got up, got back on her bike like Grandma told her. “Yes, Ma'am.” And I never saw Poulou hit the dirt again.

“Jr,” Grandma called me over to where she sat and handed me a glass jar with the words: “STRAWBERRY PRESERVE'' written across the middle. “Get’cha Grandma a glass of water, boy and don't cha be all day.”

My Little feet took me to the kitchen and back in seconds. Grandma had a new fly swatter and was probably itching to try it upside my head had I been the least bit disobedient. “Here you go, Grandma,” I said, handing over the glass of water. “I put some ice in it too.” Then I was back to the yard, feet running and kicking, playing no telling what with Poulou and Two.

As I said before, I had thought I was all manner of clever and smart. I got whipped with switch, belt, hand or whatever was in reaching distance at the time of my displeasures. Had that ever stopped me from being too smart for my own good? Nope.

“If we dug a hole and took the devil back to God,” it was me, Poulou, and Two. We were sweating, dirty, and probably had nothing else to do. I had asked them something like that. “Think Grandma'll give us some candy?”

Poulou was the oldest, I was the second and Two was the baby. Poulou was bright of skin like her daddy, as cute as a button. Two was dark like aunt Paula and hadn’t really learnt to talk yet. They were sister and brother, and we really thought we could do what I just requested.

“I oin't know,” Poulou said.

Two, who was a quiet boy growing up, said nothing. But it was him who ran and got the shovels from under the porch and brought them back to me and Poulou. He was smiling ear to ear.

Simply put: We took turns digging, dug a hole, in the front yard, in front of Grandma's house, and got a beating unlike that before.

The hole was about three-feet deep, out in front of Grandma’s old house by the steps. We thought of putting it there so that Grandma wouldn’t have to walk far to see it. We had done a nice day's work. By tomorrow, we'll have the devil wrapped nice and tight in rope, on his way back to God.

We brought Grandma outside to have a look at the good deed we'd done. “See Grandma, I told ya . . . ” Grandma about had her ninth stroke.

“Lord!” she said, “These kids done dug my yard!” I had never seen Grandma move as fast as she did through the screen door, into the house, back standing on the porch, holding a belt for whipping. Grandma's voice was deep and strong. “I done told y'all bout digging in my yard! I done told ya! and I ain’t telling ya no more!” Grandma gave her belt a little whip and shake, “Get out of' em. I mean, right now!”

“Ol’ Lord,'' I had said to Jesus, “please, I don’t want no whopping.” I began to pray to God. But I guess I hadn't put enough money in the pot on Sunday, because Grandma beat me black, blue, red, purple and all the other colors I was just learning from my prestigious studies as a kindergartener.

Two and Poulou took their whooping with dignity: Legs jumping and feet a-kicking. Hooting and yowling, “We won’t do it no more, Grandma!” but me.

I ran!

I took up them roads like the runaway horse from the whip. I ran past them Smallwood's with my feet a blur and my arms a-swinging. I ran and ran without stop. Maybe it was the sound of Poulou squealing that had encouraged my legs to pump fast and hard. “It was Jr, Grandma, he told us to do it.”

True enough, it had been my plan, and had it worked (Poulou), I would have claimed all success. I did feel bad about leaving Two and Poulou to their fate of whopping and shouting. Did “feeling bad” stop me from bursting into that cemetery, with my lungs on fire, eyes wide and white like the skittish horse? No, it didn’t.

Let me explain something: Grandma had a strong hand for whooping. She knew how to put that switch, belt, or walking stick across you with the right amount of pressure to make you squeal and shout.

. . . And if I thought grandma would have cooled down by the time I walked into the yard as the sun was beginning to set below the horizon. I was dead wrong.

I trudged past the mailbox thinking I had escaped a whooping. Grandma sat in her favorite spot next to the window by the air conditioner. She sat with one leg casually crossed over the other, holding her right hand below her chin, looking thoughtful.

I tried to explain my case, told her sorry. I'll mow the lawn rake the yard. Don't whoop me. I'll never do it again. Grandma sat and listened, never missing a beat. She even smiled and gave her head a little nod at my grand persuasion of gestures and hands. But Grandma was cunning, smart, calculous, and patient. And I had been wondering (where are Poulou and Two?).

Poulou and Two emerged from the side room by the TV, grabbed me by my arm and leg, and shouted: “We got him, Grandma!”

Fought, yes. Squirmed, you know it. Wiggled, I tried. But to no use. Poulou and Two held me good.

Grandma stood up slow and whipped the belt from under the couch. My eyes must have grown as big as quarters. Grandma gave me a smile that a wolf would give a sheep when it knows it has nowhere to run. “I know you won’t do it again, boy.” Grandma said, then reached back her arm. “And I’m gon’ teach ya to run from me!” Then she whipped it forward!

I won't bore you with how the belt was black, thick, and made of leather. Or how I had, hoot and hollered, screamed and shouted like the holy spirit of God had gotten inside me. No. I will not bore my readers with how Grandma had drawn back her arm and commanded forward, again and again. All that matters is this . . .

I had dug a hole in the front yard of Ada Lee Maxie. Why? All I can do now is shrug my shoulders. Maybe I had done it for fame, or was it for candy? Probably both, but I can tell you this.

I never, in my years to come, dug another hole in that yard again. I bet you that! Not to build a castle out of dirt. Not to make a ramp to jump my bike. Not to make a mud pie made with almonds and rocks. My digging in that yard days were past behind me. I had moved on to better things in life. Like walking in the woods at night…

* * *

Ada Lee Maxie had been my grandma, and I am proud to say I had been a grandson (still am). I had about gave her strokes, heart attacks, glasses of water and a helping hand around the house when she needed it. But she had loved me. And she had loved me something fierce and strong.

I remember her saying: “Remember me the way I am, Jr.” Me and Grandma were playing checkers when I blew one of her pieces for not taking the jump. “Damn it!” she said. “And tell Rita’chelle I said, 'Not to be crying over my body. Ain’t nothing to cry over.’ Do ya hear me, boy?”

I had probably said yes ma’am and not to be talking like that. “Yes, ma'am,” I said to Grandma. “And I promise.”

Grandma gave a smile, “I want my red Mercedes, boy. Whether I’m dead or not.”

End